The Differences Between Us
by Rinara
Summary: A year after the events of Hitman: Absolution, Diana Burnwood suddenly dies of natural causes, leaving a fifteen-year-old Victoria to fend for herself again. Always watching from the shadows, Agent 47 reluctantly decides to temporarily care and raise Victoria until she turns eighteen. Chapter 3 now up.
1. Chapter 1

**The Beginning**

* * *

_For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,_  
_ Who art as black as hell, as dark as night._

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 147

* * *

Victoria sits next to a family she does not recognize. The funeral is unusually small, but she understands that is to be expected. Living a life like Diana's meant complete secrecy. She understands the reasoning behind the secretive funeral, and in the coffin only a few feet before her, Victoria sees a woman she does not recognize. Her only friend in the world, Diana, finally rests eternally. But Diana's body is different. The cancer had eaten her alive in only a year, leaving nothing behind but skin and bones. A year ago, not even a bullet could kill Diana from that mysterious man who saved Victoria. The young fifteen year old wanted to believe her only friend in the world was immortal, for she loathed being alone.

She stares at the plush, red carpet around the open coffin. Victoria does not like anything about this ceremony—she holds her breath as her stomach churns in displeasure. Immediately taking this as a sign from God to leave, she lifts herself from the cushioned chair and looks around for the nearest exit. Her knees buckle immediately after taking the first step towards the closed door on the right side of the scarce, white room. Victoria's vision blurs and her head swirls viciously. She thrusts her body towards the door, feeling closer to freedom. Upon reaching the handle, she yanks open the door and collapses into the hallway. Her bedroom was still a long way off, but Victoria did not have the strength to lift herself from the floor of misery. She slightly raises her head, hoping to see a guard who would happily help her back to her room.

The secretive funeral is being held in one of the back rooms of Diana's mansion, but to Victoria, having such a ceremony in the mansion was a terrible idea. She didn't want to walk the mansion halls thinking of her lost friend—her lost savior from a terrible life. Victoria still kneels on the floor, unsure of what to do. Tears cling to the tips of her eyelashes, and suddenly, she gasps as she is being tugged from the hallway's marble floor. She immediately recognizes the familiar black, leather gloves which were clenching the long, beige sleeves of her uncomfortable dress into a bundle. Victoria's eyes fling from the floor to the man's face, and she immediately stares into vivid, blue eyes. She recognizes the man who saved her life barely over a year ago, but his features begin to blur and distort as sorrow takes control of her ability to speak and see. Victoria's icy tears sting beneath her eyelids, and the swelling of them make her look as if she suffered from severe allergies. Eventually, such heavy tears escape their prison and race down her warm, pale cheeks. Victoria throws her arms around agent 47's neck while beginning to sob.

"She—she's—" Victoria mutters. Her words are barely audible as she continues to bury her face into 47's shoulder. "Diana's dead—"

"I know," the assassin responds casually, showing no signs of grief at losing his handler.

"S—she was my only friend!" The young girl sniffles and rubs her now swollen eyes on the back of her hand. "What do I do now? W-where am I supposed to go?"

47 sighs, "I'm sure something will be arranged for you. Diana wouldn't have left you out of her will."

The complete emotional detachment present within the assassin's voice only makes Victoria feel more uncomfortable and anxious. She tries to calm herself, but her heart slams against her ribcage, causing her to feel faint. Almost expecting this, 47 places a firm hand on Victoria's shoulder. He leads her to the nearest door in the hallway right next to the room where Diana's body is placed. Such thoughts of a lifeless corpse cause Victoria's stomach to churn with nerves again. 47 opens the glossy, oak door and leads the fifteen year old girl to the nearest sofa within. She collapses into the expensive, leather cushions and listens to them squeak in agony as her body makes contact with them.

"Who do I talk to about Diana's will?" Victoria asks. Her voice is barely audible over the way she shuffles in her seat as she tries to get comfortable. She never did approve of the lousy seating within the library.

"Stay here—" the assassin whispers, turning his back to the young teen. "I'll go look for Diana's lawyer. He's probably near the funeral room …"

As 47 walks to the door, Victoria's eyes fling back and forth to the different bookshelves located around the library. For over a year, she has spent all of her waking moments in the library reading novels, magazines, or anything she could get her hands on. Not having any friends as she was homeschooled, Victoria enjoyed keeping her mind occupied with the imaginary beings and situations found within books. Her eyes linger towards the ceiling of the library—her favorite feature of the whole room.

Above her, painted freckles of yellow and white stars are highlighted by the deep blue and black paint of the background. Her eyes linger for a few minutes on the painted Heavens above her—did Diana become a star when she died? Did she become a beautiful, small, glowing flicker of light among a mass of blackness—of lost hope?

Such questioning causes ache in the young girl's heart. Weakly, her eyes now linger back to the vast bookshelves which she loves dearly. And every so often, Victoria finds herself reciting famous lines from her favorite Shakespearean plays. Her emerald eyes meet with the tattered binding of _The Collection of the Works of Shakespeare_, and immediately, her favorite line from _Romeo and Juliet_ comes to mind:

" …and when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars …" Victoria murmurs quickly, fearful of being overheard. "And he will make the face of Heaven so fine … that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun!"

The young girl shivers slightly in shock upon hearing the oak door creak loudly. The assassin has returned with a short, plump man wearing a navy blue suit with tacky, fading gold rings around his stubby fingers. Victoria slightly grimaces but tries her best to hide it. Is this waddling man truly Diana's _highly_ professional and most trusted lawyer? To Victoria, he seems like the type of lawyer one would find working with mafia crime lords, and at such a thought, she slightly chuckles immediately.

"Ah, lovely miss Victoria!" the short man exclaims proudly. His husky voice possibly reveals years of smoking cigars. "We finally meet! I have heard much of you from Diana! She said you were quite the bright one!"

The lawyer plops into a chair directly across from Victoria. The young girl sinks sadly into the couch. If she could somewhat disappear under the cushions, she would do so immediately. Unfortunately, she had to sit uncomfortably near a man she did not trust. Her future was, unfortunately, in his hands.

Feeling the intensity of the situation from both the assassin and Victoria, the lawyer clears his throat, "Well, let's get straight into it then …"

The lawyer awkwardly shuffles in his seat before taking out a paper folded within his suit's pocket. He clears his throat once more and silently reads the paper.

"In terms of inheritance, Burnwood left you quite a hefty sum of money. And by hefty, I mean _HEFTY_!" he exclaims as a thin smile forms from cheek to cheek. "But—there is a restriction on it …"

47, although not very interested in the legal matters, felt a sudden volt of confusion. "Restriction?"

"Yes—well, you see, Victoria—you're fifteen, correct?"

The girl nods approvingly in response.

"To be of age—_eighteen_, of course—is when you would be able to legally obtain the money." the lawyer frowns. "Until then, there is little anyone can do for you."

"How so?" Victoria cries out. Her emerald gems glaze over with tears.

"This mansion, as stated in the will, is to be sold. And from what I understand, you don't have anywhere else you can stay, correct?" the lawyer's eyes linger to the floor. Such difficult matters are hard to discuss when a fifteen year old girl is beginning to cry. "Look on the bright side; you can stay here until the mansion is sold, but …"

"Where will she go?" 47's icy words pierced both the lawyer and Victoria unexpectedly. Although the assassin already knew of the girl's fate, he certainly had to make sure if the lawyer had the same idea.

"Well—it says here that living arrangements weren't made for Victoria, actually," the lawyer continues to read through the will. "In fact, Miss Burnwood probably didn't plan on dying so abruptly. Thus, she probably imagined the girl would be an adult by the time she died."

The young girl's heart plummets to her feet. 47 notices the crème color of her cheeks fade into a dull white.

Victoria's lips tremble. "So, now what? What do I do?"

"Well—" the elderly man sighs, removing his glasses. "I see two options. One—you can spend your last three years before adulthood in a foster home. Or, two—you can go to an orphanage. Either way, we will keep tabs on you in order to make sure you get your money when you come of age."

"But—" Victoria slightly chokes back a sob. "But I don't want to go to an orphanage! And I _don't _want to go to a foster home, either!"

The lawyer continues, "Well, I don't see another choice. Besides, you only have to stay there for three years until you are able to move out and do whatever you want. It's simple, really!"

"Can't I just access the money now to find a nice apartment somewhere?" she sniffles, feeling an incredible pain in her chest. "All I need would be about two hundred dollars a month—"

"I can't disburse any money. I'm not in charge of that."

Victoria buries her face in the palms of her hands. Thoughts of despair run rampant in the dark abyss of her mind.

"What if—" she whispers, feeling calmness overtake her upon devising a possibly brilliant plan. "What if I go to a college preparatory or boarding school? Some schools have dorms on campus I can stay at all semester. I can probably even stay there for the holidays!"

"No, that certainly won't work although it is a great idea," the lawyer smacks his lips.

"What? How is it _not_ a good idea?" she groans.

"The cost of attendance for that type of education is far pricier than a local private school!"

Victoria buries her face in the sweaty palms of her hands—any terrible fate would still be better than living in an orphanage alone and unwanted. 47, witnessing the teen's distress, did not remotely feel upset by the unsettling news of the lawyer. A twinge of pain, however, spreads across his eyebrows and squinted eyes. True to the lawyer's words, Diana did not expect to die so suddenly, and 47 has no idea of what to make of this discovery. Diana was a woman who perfectly planned everything to the tiniest details. To have her die by surprise seems very unfitting and a terrible mistake. The assassin, although slightly disappointed in this realization, did not want his thoughts to linger on the subject.

Still, his handler had risked everything to protect the fifteen-year-old girl who now cries silently on the couch. In her watery gems, 47 caught a glimpse of himself in his expensive suit and tie. For a second, he could imagine Victoria in his position—a skilled, well-paid assassin. But she is still a girl—just a girl who will be forced to live a lonely three to four years in an orphanage filled with anger, depression, and with a sense of abandonment. A girl who might one day use her troubled past to become a trained killer. A girl with a natural ability to fight. A not-so-normal fifteen year old girl sent to live alone in an orphanage. Alone in depression. An angry Victoria—a girl who would be angry enough to willingly follow in the footsteps of 47 one day when she would be old enough to do so. Victoria, an assassin—something Diana fought hard to prevent.

Before he even had a chance to understand his thoughts, 47 faced the lawyer and asked, "Sir, may I have a word with you?"

The lawyer nodded awkwardly, moving away from the weeping teenager. The girl certainly had plenty of issues to deal with. Firstly, her only friend died. Secondly, she was destined to become abandoned.

"Say—" 47 clears his throat, unsure of how to unscramble a group of words floating in the back of his mind. "Let's just _imagine_. Let's say someone wants to adopt her—how would this person go about doing so?"

"Well—it's just a matter of filling out paperwork, and yes—yes, of course—the said person has to wait for the paperwork to be approved."

"How long?"

"Sadly, the process is very long. Not too much, but still quite significant. I'd say six or seven months—maybe a year or so. Not everyone is lucky with this sort of thing. A lot of couples are turned down because—"

"I see," 47 states, effectively cutting off the lawyer. He already heard everything necessary for him to make a decision.

"Victoria, however, will be able to stay in this house until it is sold," the lawyer clears his throat. "It also seems Miss Burnwood paid the housekeeping staff and guards a month in advance. So, the girl will be well cared for until the house is sold and the workers earn their last paycheck."

47 nods slowly, unsure of what to make of his former handler's actions. He finds it almost hard to believe someone would pay employees in advance. Is it possible Diana knew Victoria would need adult supervision until proper arrangements were to be made? The assassin's eyes roam the library in confusion. Understanding that the bald man was unwilling to further communicate with him, the stout, short lawyer fidgets awkwardly in his creaking chair.

"If it is of any consolation …" the lawyer whispers. He avoids any eye contact with the curious teenager sitting near him on a couch. "I can put in a good word for you to speed up the adoption process. It is clear to me how much the girl meant to Miss Burnwood, and it seems you care for her just—never mind that. I'm just being silly. It's just a shame Burnwood died so—"

Before mentioning anything about death or cancer, the lawyer cut his sentence off. He did not wish to further depress Victoria and make her cry again. The lawyer feels 47's and Victoria's cold stares pierce his strained, worn face. Taking the awkward silence in the room as a sign to leave, the round man pushes himself away from the table littered with maps and history books.

"Please, excuse me. I have a call to make …" the stout man waddles to the door.

Upon reaching the glossy, oak beauty, he opens it in one swift motion and immediately disappears behind it. 47 and Victoria listen intently to the clicking of the man's shoes against the marble flooring of the hallway. Judging by the sound of the lawyer's steps, 47 realizes he simply walked down the hall back to the funeral room. The assassin continues to study the dust shelves of the library around him. The amount of books within the medium sized room is astounding, and the assassin stands in awe of the place around him. He wonders if Diana ever had time to leisurely read outside her job.

But it is foolish to ponder on Diana's tastes when she no longer existed. 47, upon remembering the issue he has to address, turns around and stares at the young teen sitting hopelessly on the couch. Victoria stares back at him—her gems seek an answer in the assassin's unreadable, pale face. His vivid, blue eyes are empty—they do not reflect the stars painted above them in the library. They do not reflect the amazing kindness and beauty Diana often depicted them to be.

"Pack your things," 47 whispers suddenly. "We're leaving tonight."

She frowns. "Aren't you going to file for adoption?"

"No need to. They won't find you where we're going."

The assassin delicately unfolds an ancient looking map of the world. He becomes distracted by particles of dust which dance in golden streams of sunlight coming from the open window. Everything in the enormous library was covered with dust, and even more so, the books which were neatly aligned among the shelves were incredibly tattered. The assassin, unknowing of Victoria's love for books, imagines that Diana must have done quite a bit of reading in her free time if she had any. 47's gloved fingers trace the map's indentions.

"Where are we going?" She asks, still frowning but now full of curiosity.

Victoria fiddles with a loose string of her skirt and is unsure of what to do. She loves the mansion, but of course, she cannot stay in a house which is to be sold in a few months. Even more so, she doesn't have the money to purchase it herself. While Diana may have left her a good sum of money, she would not be able to access it until she turns into an adult.

"Thank you—you know, for what you're doing. Thanks."

47's blue eyes linger slowly from the map to meet Victoria's emerald eyes. She smiles widely, and a solitary tear dances down her crème colored cheek. The assassin sighs while still studying the map.

Certainly, it was going to be a hard and _interesting_ three years …


	2. Chapter 2

He expected it to happen eventually.

He did not know when it would happen, where it would happen, or even if it would happen in a year or so—but he expected _something_ to happen. He expected his newly-"adopted" girl to be bullied by her classmates the moment he had set foot on her rundown, high school campus. But _how_ she would respond to such bullying, however, was something that caught 47 slightly off guard.

Regardless, the assassin is unsure of whether or not to blame himself for the recent misfortunes. He is unsure whether or not to be upset at the fifteen-year-old girl. 47 is unsure of a plethora of problems that manage to creep into his mind as he waits impatiently in the principal's office of Victoria's private high school. Taking custody of Victoria and raising her, it seems, has proved to be far more difficult than the assassin previously believed.

But despite 47's light sense of guilt, he secretly revels in his sweet success.

"Mister—uh," the secretary of the principal's office quickly views her clipboard. "Mr. Rieper, was it?"

"Yes, that's right," 47 fidgets slightly in his undersized chair. For the past ten minutes, the secretary had made awful attempts at forming a lasting conversation with him. Unbeknownst to her, the assassin merely wanted to see the principal, hear his or her complaints, and leave the rundown, forsaken high school forever.

"So, I take it Mrs. Rieper couldn't make it to the meeting," the blonde secretary with rows of cascading curls awkwardly smiles.

47 glares at her from across the small office.

"Or … is there a Mrs. Rieper?" she asks with now a full smile across her face.

47 sighs, "When did you say the principal will be seeing me again?"

"Oh—" the secretary's smile quickly fades once she realizes 47's disinterest in her. "Once she comes back from the nurse's office, you can talk to her ..."

47 mentally groans, feeling the blistering stare of the newly-fuming secretary. The assassin has no time to sit and chat to random people—he has a duty to do. He has to care for Victoria until she is old enough to care for herself. He has to make sure Diana's money ends up in the young adult's hands one day soon. After all, the assassin has places to go to and people to deal with—work never ends for the most desired assassin. Regardless if he is the reluctant caretaker of an individualistic, spunky teenager, 47 hates the idea of juggling two jobs.

He is an assassin during the night and a devoted caretaker of a fifteen-year-old by day. 47 never dares to leave the youth unattended in their rundown, dingy apartment in the worst part of London. There is too much risk involved in doing so, and as a result, 47's thoughts often wander to an imaginary, disappointed Diana should something happen to Victoria. Thus, the assassin sleeps during the day when Victoria is at school, escorts her home every day, and takes off in the night to finish some contracts.

But not today.

Of course, an assassin like 47 can never call in sick to work. But, today, he will not sleep or rest until tomorrow afternoon. Today, he spends his resting hours sitting in a principal's office. The assassin mentally frowns at such a thought. Pondering on this unusual encounter, 47 finds himself completely clueless on how to handle the situation at hand. Never in a million years would he have imagined himself in this position—waiting to talk to a principal because his adopted "daughter" decided to beat people up in her high school.

The sudden creaking of a door makes the assassin's heart thud viciously within his chest. The time has come. Without having to fully turn his head to the opening door, 47 catches a glimpse of Victoria from the corner of his left eye. She shamefully tiptoes into the principal's office, refusing to turn her damage cheek to 47. Behind her, the principal holds the girl by her shoulders, leading her to seclusion from the bustling hallway.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Rieper!" the principal nods in the assassin's direction. "No worries, your daughter is just fine. The nurse had a look at her."

The fifteen-year-old, still refusing to face the assassin, flings her straight hair forward in an attempt to cover her face. She slowly walks towards a chair farthest away from 47. The assassin's heart continues to pound viciously against his ribcage. What has happened to Victoria?

Quickly and skillfully, 47 extends a gloved hand to a hesitant Victoria and drags her closer to him. She struggles under his strong tug. The assassin then places a firm grip on Victoria's chin, lifting her face and forcing her to make direct eye contact with him. Regardless of 47's unnatural strength, Victoria's emerald eyes fling to the faded, white tile of the floor. She would not give him the respect of staring at him.

"No," 47 finally voices his frustration with the rebellious teenager. The sudden command seemed lifeless to the teenager—between its harshness, there lies no trace of emotion. "Look at me."

The strain in his voice causes Victoria to slightly shudder in unusual fear. Never has 47 spoken so abruptly and harshly to her. Realizing this, her gaze shifts to the misty, blue eyes of the bald man before her. His grip on her chin increasingly tightens as he fully grasps the damage on Victoria's face. Beneath her right eye, a sour, purple bruise begins to swell, causing her lower lid to puff up. The bottom of her plump, pink lips is tinting into a deep shade of crimson—her slight pout becomes slightly more profound as light tears form in her damaged eye.

"I'm alright—_really_!" Victoria tries to calm her nerves as her cheeks flush a light pink. She did not enjoy being scrutinized by the assassin.

"Apparently, you're far from okay. Look at your—"

The young girl suddenly slaps 47's hand away from her face in complete bitterness.

"I'm _fine_ …" she groans.

47 and Victoria glare at each other for a few seconds before the principal taps the assassin on his shoulder.

"Mr. Rieper, let's go to the meeting room, shall we?" Suddenly, the principal points at the secretary to continue working at her desk, and then, the three people move into the adjacent room interconnected with the principal's main office. 47 steps through the door last and shuts the it happily, glad to finally remove himself from the same room as the nosy secretary.

In the meeting room, a large, circular table is placed in the center of it. The walls are white—plain, boring. The floor is white—plain, boring. The glossy table is littered with old, disposable coffee cups whose rims are tainted by faded, chunky lipstick.

"Sorry about this mess! We had a meeting earlier today!" The principal giggles softly, but 47 knew better. No one has been having meetings in this office for a _very_ long time. Anyone else would have not minded the mess, but to someone with high tastes like the assassin, the disgusting room slightly bothered him. Still, the most annoying thing about the principal is her little lies. 47 sighs to himself as he knocks over a few of the littered coffee cups after finding a seat farthest away from the door. Victoria, still in a rebellious mood, sat right next to the principal and the farthest away from 47.

"Victoria, dear, can you tell your father what happened today?" the principal clears her throat awkwardly.

"I got into a fight," Victoria stares at her hands resting on her lap. She fiddles with the hem of her skirt.

"And why did you get into a fight?"

"Because a group of boys were picking on me."

"Why were they picking on you?"

"Because I told them to stop picking on this other girl who never fought back."

"And why didn't you come to tell me about this?"

"Because it's none of your business."

The principal gasps bitterly, "_What_? What do you _mean_ it's none of my business, young lady?"

"Last time I asked for your help, you gave me detention!" Victoria blurts out, and a solitary tear struggles to glide down her bruised, bumpy cheek. "You don't care whether I suffer here or not!"

"That is not true!"

"It _is_ true! It is!"

Both the fifteen-year-old and the principal turn to view the silent, bald man sitting slightly hunched over in his seat. While the assassin has been trained to deal with any surprises, this event certainly has caught 47 off guard. He simply clears his throat as his eyes continue to scan the bruised face of Victoria.

"When and why did you receive detention?" the assassin awkwardly whispers, feeling a strange, overwhelming humidity suddenly overtake him.

"Because the kids I fight are rich, and their parents are very important people!" Victoria weeps, and she thrusts her hands towards the principal. "I _can't_ take this school's politics! This woman doesn't do anything because she's friends with their parents!"

47, feeling overwhelmed at Victoria's sudden burst of anger, turns his head slightly to view the principal, whose cheeks begin to fade from a soft rose to a pasty, milk color.

The principal clears her throat, "That's enough, young lady. You earned detention because you started a fight—"

"I was being _bullied_ …" Victoria groans, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. She grimaces at the slightest touch to her bruised face.

"And I warned you of what would happen if you tried again!" the principal slams her hand against the table. "You just needed to report it, okay?"

Victoria sighs in response. There would be no winning against the principal today, tomorrow, or ever. She slides down in her seat and crosses her legs in bitter hatred, feeling defeat. Still, her eyes never meet the assassin's—her shame is great.

"Why was I not notified of this problem the first time?" 47 frowns as he subtly glares at the principal.

The principal smirks lightly. "I can handle your daughter by myself, sir. I assure you."

"I never asked for your help," the assassin dryly retorts. "Handling Victoria is my job—not yours."

The principal, now fuming, simply shudders in her seat and looks away from the man sitting before her. Victoria lightly sniffles, and the assassin simply continues to glare at the principal. For, after all, what did some random woman who has known Victoria for a mere three months know about anything? Was the principal there a year ago to save the girl from kidnapping? What did the principal care for a random transfer student who has never been in London before? What did the principal care for a young girl who had no real family other than a surprisingly mysterious adoptive caretaker?

Still, what can one do? 47 realizes how important an education for Victoria is. She is a freshman in high school. She cannot simply drop out no matter how difficult of a time she is experiencing at the hands of terrible people. The assassin begins to mentally weigh the pros and cons of the situation at hand. Education is important. It is very important for a girl who came from nothing and still has nothing.

"Do you fail to understand the seriousness of the situation, sir?" the principal blurts out, her cheeks reddening with each word that passes her lips. "Do you?"

"Of course I underst—" 47 does not raise his voice despite his boiling anger.

"Miss Victoria took on four boys in a fight with knives, sir! _Knives_! Besides that, she broke one boy's arm and the nose of another!"

"I did what I had to do!" Victoria croaks.

"Girl, there are a variety of other things you could have done! You could have come to the office—you could have talked to _me_!" the woman sighs heavily, now rubbing her temples.

"I see—" the assassin whispers. Truly, there is no way to win against a woman with severe anger issues who finds no fault in herself.

"And if you can handle this situation, sir, what should we do to punish Victoria?"

"Well, what do you have in mind?" 47 finally caves in. Victoria has to stay in school no matter what—unfair but necessary.

"I'll have to give her detention for the rest of the semester but _only_ because she was being bullied, and the boys confessed to it. Otherwise, I'd have to expel her and maybe send her to some delinquent program. Still, parents are _very_ angry. Victoria, you got off lucky this time!"

"Detention is fine," 47 states, refusing to stare at the possibly fussy and shocked girl in front of him.

The principal nods in agreement, rises from her seat, and storms out of her office, shutting the door behind her. If anything, the assassin realizes Victoria will only have more trouble to deal with once he leaves campus. The principal hates him now and will stop at nothing to make the fifteen-year-old miserable.

"I can't believe I get detention for doing what's _right_—" Victoria sniffles. "Why would you let her give me even more when nothing is my fault?"

The assassin slowly lifts himself from the uncomfortable chair. "You'll thank me in three years when you graduate and get accepted to a university. Be grateful you are not going to some juvenile delinquent program."

"But it's not _fair_!" the young girl croaks again, feeling more miserable.

"Nothing is fair. You just have to deal with these problems the best way you can," 47 states.

Although furious at the assassin's words, Victoria buries her face into her hands and groans. The edges of 47's lips curl slightly upwards at sight of the frustrated girl. Still staring blankly at the littered table before him, the assassin silently relishes his success.

"Knives, huh?" the assassin smirks.

"They—they got the first punch, and—" Victoria croaks, still fearful of what 47 thinks of her bruised face. "I didn't want to fight. I didn't want to kill anyone, but they pulled out knives—I tried. I really, really, really tried. I did what I had to in order not to die myself …"

"And how did the fight end? Did they run away?"

"All of them ran after I broke one boy's nose, why?" Victoria's emerald eyes finally make contact with the cold, blue stare of 47. She is taken aback by the slight smile on the emotionless man's face.

As quickly as it had come, the assassin's smile had disappeared. He whispers a brief, "just wondering" to the curious girl and faces the door. It is time for him to leave before his next "assignment" of the day—his actual work that feeds both him and Victoria.

With proper mental and physical training, 47 realizes, Victoria knows how to properly defend herself. Instead of acting up under pressure, she handled the situation in a logical manner. Sure, she broke a few bones, but she was able to properly defend herself without losing complete control. For the past few months since Diana's death, the assassin had trained her for such a moment. Although the training was never quite extensive, it seems the girl caught on quick and remembered everything 47 had told her to do should such an event arise. And the assassin's most important advice to a pure girl like Victoria was this, "never kill."

For, a girl as sweet and innocent as Victoria should never have to be burdened or tainted by the death of another human being so early in age. Had 47 such a choice when he was her age, he believes his life would be different.

It would be _very_ different …

"I'm sorry for causing you so much trouble," Victoria sighs. "And I'm sorry I slapped your hand earlier. I know you were trying to help, I just—"

"No worries. You did what you had to."

"Can we please leave London, though? _Please_?" she pleads desperately, finally rising from her chair and walking slowly around the table towards her caretaker.

"Yes—work is taking me elsewhere for a few months, anyway," 47 lies. He can relocate anytime he wants. Being the most wanted assassin, works takes him anywhere. "No need to stay here any longer."

And with that, the teen sighs heavily—gratefulness tearing away at her seams of hatred. God had answered the fifteen-year-old's prayer.

"Thank you," Victoria sniffles.

The tips of her pale fingertips try to slip around the assassin's arm before he quickly fidgets away from her, effectively creating a distance between them. Victoria's attempts to grab his arm and pull him closer to her resulted in failure. If anything, the girl simply wanted to hug him as a token of her gratitude. To which, 47 does not approve of. Still, he understands the inner sadness this causes Victoria, and he simply shrugs in response.

"No problem," 47 sighs, finally placing his hand on the door's handle and exiting the meeting room first.

And in Heaven, 47 knew his former handler was laughing at him—laughing at how he cannot seem to handle a rebellious yet affectionate fifteen-year-old girl. And in the back of his mind, the day's events keep replaying. The whole ordeal is almost unbelievable.

_Surely_, 47 thinks to himself, _a whole lifetime of training and working as an assassin would have prepared me enough to face all the surprises a teenager could create, right?_

_Right?_


	3. Chapter 3

He most regretted his decision to adopt Victoria whenever she proved herself to be more of a hassle than he previously imagined. And today is one of those days where agent 47 began to reminisce on better years when he lived alone and cared only for himself …

* * *

**4:56 pm. Paris, France**. Target one of four is about to be eliminated in a small, bustling café in one of the most renown markets of Paris.

"_One cup of regular coffee. Cream. No sugar."_

The assassin is skillful, quick, and diligent. Not one person's voice distracts him from the most important task of the day. His hands move swiftly. He grabs a small metal jar filled to the brim with thick, frosty cream. Judging by the amount of coffee within the mug already, 47 plans carefully—too much cream would cause an overflow. He tightly grips the jar and slightly tips the cream into the steaming, jet-black coffee. The white liquid drips into the steaming concoction. The contents of the mug mix quickly without the assassin having to swirl it. The customer's order for coffee is done to perfection in only a matter of three minutes. However, it misses the last, essential ingredient. 47's blue eyes meet the dull brown of the man who had ordered the coffee. Standing behind the counter, the assassin needs more privacy before he can add his last ingredient—poison.

The assassin checks his watch. 5 pm. He's right on schedule.

"One minute, sir," 47 smiles at the man. "I need to add a bit more cream. I'll be right back."

Careful to not spill the contents from the mug, the assassin gently holds the cup between both of his bare hands. He moves to another counter further away from the customer and the rest of his "coworkers." Slightly looking over his shoulder once walking to a different counter, 47 notices the man eyeing some strawberry pastries at the display near the register. Swiftly, the assassin reaches into his apron's pocket and pulls out a small vial of clear liquid. He unsnaps the sturdy lid and allows the liquid to slip its way from the vial's long, shiny neck. The poison swirls into the quickly-discoloring coffee and lingers on the sides of the ceramic mug before slowly sinking deeper into the deadly concoction …

In a matter of seconds, the coffee turns from a fading black to a sickening shade of coconut brown. The drink is complete.

Although noise never distracts the assassin, the sudden jingle of the café's opening door catches 47's attention. His eyes fling to the door. Although his customer is standing at the register waiting for the finished order, 47's bright blue eyes glitter suddenly with disappointment. He catches a glimpse of a tall, athletic beauty entering the café.

He turns around from the mug of boiling masterpiece to find her standing at the café's doorway. Perfection at the young age of sixteen. _Victoria_. Slick, glittering auburn hair, vivid jungle green eyes, elegant, athletic build, elegant smile—the assassin could not help but feel both fear and awe at the sight of his young, newly sixteen-year-old "daughter."

Following her, a taller, messy-haired boy carrying two large textbooks hovers around the beauty. Victoria flicks long strands of smooth hair over her shoulder, making the boy smile widely. Her glittering gems meet the dull honey color of the boy's eyes, and the young teenagers nod at each other. Victoria, tightly holding onto her backpack, gently passes through the crowded café around the closely huddled tables and customers. Many people glance at her as she struts past groups of people clustered at the register. Her plump, pink lips compliment her crème colored skin and rosy, flawless cheeks. Truly, the sixteen-year-old girl is blossoming into a beautiful woman. The teenagers find a seat towards the back of the café near a window. Victoria opens her backpack, pulls out a notebook, and starts writing. The boy, although enthusiastic, prefers to simply stare at Victoria rather than open his textbooks.

Regardless of the growing beauty she is unaware of, Victoria has a knack for attracting danger. She often finds herself the center of attention at school in both popularity and hatred. Some people bully her. Some people glorify her. The gorgeous teenager finds herself walking the line between love and hate for many months now. Both Victoria and 47 have been living in Paris for the past eight months, and while the assassin no longer had to visit Victoria's school for parent-principal meetings, he did notice how often she mentioned her day's highlights whether he cared or not. And usually, her days were a mixture of anger, fighting, or making new friends who wanted to text her on a cellphone 47 would not let her have.

Suddenly, a soft, small hand taps 47's right shoulder, snapping him back to reality. The assassin turns slightly to view his smallest coworker—a girl no older than Victoria with lemon colored hair. Her vivid hazel eyes sparkle brightly even under the dim lighting of the café.

"Is the drink done?" her innocent coo makes the assassin twinge slightly in frustration. "We have another order you need to make—a large latte."

"Fine," he responds. "One more drink, and I'm on break …"

"Okay," the girl smiles.

47 nods, and without warning, the young teenager slips her thin hand into the mug's handle. Her eye contact breaks with the assassin. 47 reaches for a large, disposable cup—only one more order before he makes his escape from the café. He had to continue working if he did not want to seem suspicious.

But still, he infiltrated the café for only one reason: the man. He had to make sure the man drank his coffee before he could make his escape. While he begins filling the large cup with ingredients and cream, 47's blue eyes follow the bouncy teen as she quickly walks along the counters and tables towards someone completely unexpected.

47's perky coworker with the poisoned drink is walking towards to a tall, athletic teenager wearing a high school uniform.

Victoria.

47 drops the metal jar which was once filled with thick cream. It crashes into the wooden counter, spilling all over the counter-top and dripping down the edges. Naturally, the café is far too noisy for anyone to hear the sudden crashing of the metal jar onto the tile floor the moment it had slipped off the counter. 47 can feel the smooth, cold cream seeping into his apron as he rests his body against the messy counter.

_A mistake,_ he thinks to himself. _A mistake. A miscalculation_.

Years of mental training had prepared him to remain calm under any sort of pressure. He had to act—he had to think. He could not alert Victoria about the poison or else his cover would be blown. He could not jump over the counter and slam the mug from her soft, pale hands no matter how desperately he wanted to…

All he could do is wait—wait and plan to kill the man in another way. Wait for Victoria to die, wait to escape, and wait to kill his _real_ victim.

47 blinks, and in the darkness of his mind, he pictures Victoria lying motionless in a coffin. Secretly, he abhors the idea of knowing _he_ is to be the cause of her death. An unfamiliar, dull ache begins to build within the assassin's chest. A whole year since Diana's death. A whole year of caring for a teenager. A whole year of living with someone when he used to be alone. A whole year of trying to give the teenager a better life than having to become an assassin like himself. And for what? For a mistake? A miscalculation? 47 steps slowly away from the counter, feeling the bitterness gradually intensify within his chest.

Victoria. Death. Murder by his own hands.

_A mistake,_ he thinks to himself again. _A mistake. A miscalculation_.

The assassin's eyes diligently follow the clueless waitress as she walks towards the beautiful sixteen-year-old and her friend. In an attempt to calm himself, 47 begins to rethink the whole situation. He reasons with himself that his fear is illogical. Victoria did not _have_ to accept the coffee. She did not have to drink it, either. Suddenly, the assassin shakes his head, realizing he spilled the cream all over the counter. It is a foolish idea to think the teenager would accept a mug which did not belong to her.

For the first time in all of his life, 47 finally let an illogical thought impair his judgment.

_Ridiculous, _he mentally shuns himself. _Pull it together_.

The assassin thinks angrily to himself, still shaking his head and now cleaning the sticky cream with a rag. A stinging sense of failure and bitterness overtakes the assassin now. The paralyzing fear and ache of pain subsides completely. Regardless of his disappointment, the assassin still watches his coworker closely as she gracefully maneuvers around tight tables finally arriving to Victoria and her friend.

"Miss," the blonde girl thrusts the mug towards a distracted Victoria who still diligently writes in her notebook. "Here is your coffee."

Victoria nods, smiles widely, and says, "Thank you, but …"

47's coworker pauses before heading back towards the register. The two teenagers exchange a few inaudible words, and Victoria hands back the mug to the blonde girl.

The assassin, finally fully aware of the mess he made, slowly and gratefully backs away from the cream-covered counter. The rag in his hand is soaked and cannot hold any more liquid. 47 simply throws the rag unto the puddle of cream, hoping someone else would be distracted by the mess as he makes his escape. But for now, the assassin's eyes still study Victoria's beautiful, innocent face, and he watches intently as she flicks her shimmering hair over her shoulders.

She is safe—for _now_, at least.

47's dark stare lingers back to his clueless coworker who now searches for the real owner of the mug. Back at the register, the man is asking for his drink to one of the other workers. 47 sighs. The whole process is taking longer than it should have.

"Miss …" 47 speaks loudly, trying to catch the blonde's attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Victoria is no longer distracted with the boy sitting in front of her. The boy's lips are moving quickly, but Victoria's attention is now set on the assassin behind the counter. The boy looks over his shoulder to see what Victoria's emerald gems are focused on.

47 turns his back to Victoria and calls out again, "Miss—over here …"

The blonde turns to view her tall, strange coworker. She immediately notices how his apron is now soaked with some strange substance.

"The mug belongs to that gentleman …" 47 points at the customer near the register. He now has everyone's attention. "He's been waiting a long time for his coffee."

"Oh! Sorry!" The young teenager's face flushes a bright red. "I didn't know!"

She scurries to the man standing by the register and hands him the mug. He smiles and nods in response.

While 47 would have stayed to make the final latte before his escape, he accidentally alerted Victoria. The act was done, and he was caught. He had to sneak out the back of the café sooner than expected. The last thing he needed was for the young teenager to walk up to the counter and speak with him. 47 quickly removes the soaked apron and heads towards the employee rest area right around the corner from the register. He must now dispose of his working clothes, switch back into his suit, and exit through the alleyway behind the café.

* * *

Victoria's eyes water slightly from not blinking. As the strange man walks around the corner to secrecy, Victoria studies his posture, his outfit, and the back of his head. The man was bald, but his black cap covered any tattoos that would have been otherwise visible.

She did not manage to see any facial features of the man because he had turned his back to her so quickly. Still, she heard his voice—so stern, so dull. The voice belonged to _him_—she is sure of it.

"Whatcha staring at, Vicky?" the messy-haired boy sitting in front of Victoria waves his hand in an attempt to gain the beautiful girl's attention. "Vicky?"

"Yeah—" the girl's emerald gems fling back to the boy. "Sorry—I, uh …"

The boy smiles widely, admiring the young beauty before him. "Looks like you've seen a ghost!"

"I might as well have seen a ghost …" Victoria whispers, still staring at the empty counter where the mysterious man once stood. "I think I saw him just now, and if so, something bad is about to happen …"

"What?" the boy perks up in his seat. "Who are you talking about? And what's going to happen?"

Victoria slams her notebook shut. She flings her pen into her backpack and watches it sink into the pile of graded papers discarded at the bottom of the bag. She lifts her notebook hastily and shoves it in along with the rest of the mess in her backpack.

"Vicky—wait!" the boy grabs Victoria's arm in an attempt to calm her. "Talk to me! I don't understa—"

"Look, it's fine!" Victoria snaps. A few other couples sitting at nearby tables turn around to stare at the suddenly bitter teenager. "I'm—I'm just not feeling well! It was a bad idea to come here after school. I should have just gone home to rest—"

"N-no, just let me buy you a cake to take home, okay?"

"No, it's fine—goodbye, Roderick!" the young teenager is uneasy with the whole situation. She did not enjoy death. She did not enjoy seeing her caretaker commit murder, either.

Victoria mentally tries to convince herself that the situation was different two years ago. Two years ago, 47 committed murder for good cause—for salvation of a young, kidnapped girl. The teenager sighs as she tries to reason with herself. A contract is a contract. A contract is money. That is all there is to it. Victoria's stomach begins to churn.

"W-wait! But—but it's your _birthday_! Don't be this way! I just want to buy you a gift!"

Victoria tugs her arm from Roderick's grasp and lifts herself from the cramped table. Suddenly, she watches the world around her swirl. The sudden warmth of the café becomes overwhelming, causing Victoria's knees to shake in uncontrollable stress. The soft murmuring of the café's crowd becomes magnified. The teen's head begins to pound viciously. Victoria takes one step forward, and her eyes blur, causing her to stumble forward. Instead of crashing into the cold, dusty tile of the cafe as she expects, Victoria feels broad, muscular arms enclose tightly around her waist, pulling her body up to standing position.

"Whoa, there!" Roderick chuckles. "I didn't expect you to be the clumsy type!"

"I told you I'm _sick_ ..."

"Well, you weren't 'sick' a few minutes ago!" he retorts.

Victoria tugs herself away from Roderick's grasp and body, feeling completely overwhelmed and disgusted by his snappy comebacks.

"Don't—" she whispers through her teeth. Her cheeks flush a crimson red. "Don't _touch_ me."

Seeing her sudden change in personality, Roderick steps away from her in confusion. How can a beautiful, sweet girl turn from angel to devil in ten seconds?

"Look—sorry!" the boy rubs his hands together, feeling both fearful and accomplished for slightly touching Victoria. "I just wanted to buy you a gift. It's your birthday today, isn't it?"

The girl sighs harshly. She unclenches her fists, trying to control her emotions like 47 taught her to. It would be no use getting into a fight with one of the most popular boys at school over something so petty. She realizes she can do more damage to him than he can to her should the opportunity come up. With this reasoning, Victoria attempts to smile again.

"It's alright …" Victoria sighs, still feeling nauseous. Surely, she must have imagined 47 working behind the counter of the café. "Maybe you can buy me a cake! I just _might_ be hungry!"

Her joking instantly cheers Roderick. He attempts to guide her to the register by placing his arm around her shoulder. Swiftly seeing this movement from the corner of her right eye, she ducks under his arm and places herself right behind him.

"Please," Victoria smiles and nods reassuringly to her Chemistry lab partner. "Lead the way."

Roderick shrugs, feeling deeply embarrassed. No matter what he did, the beautiful girl did not simply flirt back with him like many of the other girls gladly did in their high school.

"Looks like we couldn't do our project research today, huh?" Victoria jokes around, feeling slightly better about her previous doubts.

Roderick simply smiles as he carefully walks past crowded tables with his heavy textbooks. Suddenly, Victoria watches as Roderick's textbooks slip from his arms and crash into the tile. In a moment of confusion, Victoria knows the textbooks are the least of her problems—the books are not the only thing to have crashed into the tile at high speed. Near a table by the cash register, a man slams into the floor, causing the blonde waitress behind the cash register to screech.

"S-s-sir! Are you o-okay?" the lemon-haired waitress walks around the counter to get a better view of the man.

Victoria shoves Roderick out of the way, moving quickly towards the man unconscious on the floor. Upon reaching him, the teenager pauses in shock. A stream of blood and coffee trickles from the right edge of the man's lips. Victoria did not have to check the man's pulse to know the truth. The man is dead, and the cause of his death did not matter to the sixteen-year-old.

She understands instantly. The man's death could have been caused by only one man—_47_. The moment she had been dreading happened in only a matter of ten to fifteen minutes since she last saw the mysterious man behind the counter disappear.

"Oh, God!" the waitress covers her mouth. "Is he—"

"Yes …" Victoria's eyes blur. The world around her begins to slowly spin again. "He's dead."

The whole café is suddenly buzzing with life and numbing sounds. Victoria's eyes linger on the man's innocent face as coffee leaks from the corners of his mouth. The wrinkles under his eyes signify final thoughts of fear and intense pain. The slight blue tint of his once beige cheeks makes Victoria shudder slightly. Still, she could not remove her stare away from the dead man. The man's mug—the one she had held only moments before—lay shattered only a few feet away from him. Sickening-colored coffee is puddled around the scattered mug fragments. Victoria stands for what seems like hours to her before she feels the firm hands of Roderick upon her shoulders.

"We—we should go," Roderick whispers into Victoria's right ear. "You don't look so well, and this isn't our mess to deal with. Authorities should be here soon to handle this ..."

Victoria slowly turns around to see her friend and lab partner. Roderick nods reassuringly to her, his light brown eyes filled with pleading desperation. The boy has never been exposed to sudden death before. Roderick runs his hand through his messy, dirty-blonde mane of waves.

"_Please_, can we go?" he pleads, his voice cracking with complete fear.

Victoria nods in response, allowing herself to be led to the café's entrance. Both teenagers awkwardly shuffle around the corpse, and Victoria is determined to never stare at such a horrified expression ever again. Finally reaching the door, she places her sweaty palms against the frosty glass and instantly she feels relief. She pushes the door open, listening to the jingle it makes as it opens the gateway from death to freedom.

"I—I don't know what to tell you," Roderick begins as he clears his throat. "You were right. Had I known someone would die in this coffee shop, I wouldn't have asked you to come. I mean …"

Outside the café, the coolness of the day causes the teenagers to slightly huddle together. Victoria stares off into the distance, completely unaware Roderick is still talking to her. Across the street, Victoria instantly notices a mother with her teenage daughter shopping at a clothing boutique. She stares at the bustling sidewalks near the mother and daughter. Everyone—absolutely everyone—is traveling in packs. No one is alone. There are fathers with sons, daughters. Wives and husbands. Siblings chatting excitedly as they window shop together. Feeling vaguely jealous, Victoria begins to wonder what it would be like to have parents or siblings.

"So, where do you live?" the boy yaps on, unaware Victoria is no longer listening to him. "I can walk you home after we get some ice-cream or something. By the way, what's your favorite flavor?"

The sixteen-year-old did not enjoy feeling so alone—so lost in a world where no one understood who she truly was. Victoria's friends in school, although very nice, could never relate to her. Still standing in front of the café, the sweet and heavy aroma of coffee and sweets tickle her nostrils and fill her lungs. Across the street, Victoria catches a glimpse of Diana's auburn hair which glistens in fall's dim sunlight. The distracted woman sits at a bench near the corner of the sidewalk, and immediately, Victoria sprints across the street without regard to the passing cars. She listens to the blistering honks of cars she passes by and cuts off.

"Vicky!" Roderick calls. "Where are—you're _crazy_! Come back!"

She immediately stops in front of the woman resting on the bench, expecting to see her dead friend. Instead, the woman with Diana's hair color looks up from her cellphone and reveals her features—the complete opposite of Diana. The woman's thin lips begin to form a slight smile as she catches sight of Victoria. Baggy eyelids give the woman a permanent appearance of stress. Her chocolate brown eyes lack luster. Instead, their dim, lifeless color contrasts greatly with the lively green of Victoria's youthful eyes.

"Oh," the woman awkwardly smiles, fearful of the panting teenager staring at her. "_Bonjour_!"

The truth finally hits Victoria—she is alone. Completely, bitterly _alone_.

Victoria sniffles, feeling intense disappointment. The young teen has never missed another human being so terribly before. Sixteen is far too young to feel the intense heart throbbing of bitter solitude. On several occasions, she did feel the sting of disappointment and bitterness intensely. But on today of all days, her first birthday without Diana seems completely mystifying.

Diana used to _live _greatly. She even used to tell the young teenager stories every night before she went to bed, and those stories are the ones Victoria loved the best. Stories of _him_. Stories of a man who knew not how to show affection to Victoria.

Stories of missions. Stories of murder. Great stories. Sad stories. Mysterious stories. Still, the shock at the café makes Victoria shudder in fear. 47 simply carried out a contract—nothing more. The sixteen-year-old is undoubtedly sure he killed far more to save her two years ago.

Still, the assassin kills _anyone_ for a good price—the innocent and the guilty are equal to 47. And the dead man at the café looked far more innocent to the teenager than anything else. What were the innocent man's final thoughts before exhaling his last breath? Regret? Anger? Sorrow?

Victoria shudders in complete disappointment and anguish. The woman on the bench still stares curiously at the gorgeous teenager whose eyebrows contort in pain—Victoria's eyes fill slowly with heavy tears which cling to the tips of her eyelashes.

"Vicky?" Roderick whispers, placing his heavy hand on the girl's right shoulder. In response, Victoria viciously tugs herself away from Roderick. She had not realized he followed her across the street.

"Go _away_!" she groans. "Can't you just leave me alone for _one_ minute?"

The girl takes off down the street again, her eyes blurry from an excess of tears. The backpack slams every so often into her tender back the faster she sprints around corners, across highly busy streets, and into bumpy, shady alleyways. Her legs burn incessantly and her lungs ache as she continues sprinting despite her blurred vision. Victoria turns into another alleyway only a few blocks away from the apartment she shares with 47. She suddenly stops running, leaning her hip against the faded, brick wall of the alleyway. Victoria begins wheezing as tears stream down her sticky, scorching cheeks. She ponders on whether or not to sit down a rest for a while before mentally punishing herself for such foolish thoughts.

"47 always said never to stop in this part of town alone …" she whispers to herself. Although her lungs still ache fiercely, Victoria can now breathe normally again. "It's dangerous—I have to continue …"

She jogs down the alleyway, suddenly fearful when remembering she was in a notable crime-infested area. Regardless, Victoria forges ahead, turning the corner once exiting the alleyway and jogging along the sidewalk. She counts seconds in her mind with every step she takes, and her legs begin to ache with soreness. In the distance, she sees the parking lot and play area of her rundown apartment. Victoria sprints one final time, and in less than five minutes, she reaches the door of her apartment. She looks around hesitantly, noticing some shady men watching her from the nearest bus stop on the sidewalk. Ignoring them and her blistering hate, she unzips her backpack and shuffles through the mess looking for the key to her "home." She locates the key, jams it in the lock, turns it, and finally flings the door open. Victoria swiftly hops through the doorway to safety, slams the door once inside the apartment, and locks the door again. Feeling the choking hold of the apartment's humidity, the teen decides she cannot make it to her bedroom. She kneels down on the dusty wooden floor and crawls to the middle of the living room where she plans to rest until 47's return.

She immediately checks her watch. 6:30 p.m., and still, no assassin has yet to be found. The birthday girl continues to gasp for air as she now lies on her back, staring at the spot stained ceiling. Victoria mentally punishes herself for her emotional contradiction. She fears the assassin, and yet, she wants him to come home already. Victoria knows better than to assume he would come home early, for 47 never promised he would. Better yet, would he even come home at all? Still, Victoria lets the realization sink into the depths of her being, and she begins to feel a knot in her throat.

_Of course he's not here! _Victoria tries to reason with herself. _He never promised anything._

Still, the bitter realization of being completely alone bothers the young teenager once again. Without Diana, what good is it to expect affection from a cold, emotionless assassin? How long would it be till she could see her caretaker again? Although 47 had been keen on staying with the teenager during the days, today was different.

As Victoria's emerald eyes wander to the flickering light bulb dangling loosely from the ceiling, her imagination begins to blossom while her eyelids struggle to stay open. The birthday girl finally shuts her eyes, and more often than not, her imagination always leads to agent 47.

"For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright …" Victoria murmurs absentmindedly before drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

**8:00 p.m.**

When her eyelids flutter open once again, Victoria's emerald gems attempt to shift into focus. The ceiling is blurry—the flickering light bulb above her screeches in pain.

Through the sheer, tainted curtains, Victoria notices the dimness of the sunlight. Night is quickly approaching, and still, no assassin is to be found. The teenager groans, feeling completely miserable from her sore legs. And yet, her science project has yet to be completed. Victoria mentally scolds herself for being so lazy and rude to her lab partner. Day's events flash across the darkness of her mind, and she cringes in response. Still, ditching Roderick brings the young teenager inner satisfaction. She has successfully avoided another day of Roderick's attempts to shower her with undeserved treats such as ice cream or candies.

"Well …" Victoria groans. "Well … _at least_ I have time to make myself dinner now …"

"Who are you talking to?"

Victoria gasps and flings her shoulders and head forward, attempting to sit up in a startled rush. In the flickering light of the living room, she notices a familiar man sitting lazily on a torn, dusty recliner which does not properly work anymore. The assassin firmly holds a white towel to his right arm.

"Oh—" Victoria coos as she listens to the intense throbbing of her heart. "You're home—47, I'm so glad you're here ...!"

As her emerald eyes shift into focus, she begins to register her surroundings and the man sitting before her. The living room is far darker than before—night time might arrive sooner than most days. Sunlight no longer streams vividly through the thin, cotton curtains on the stained, foggy window. Victoria rubs her eyes harshly—her achy knees and legs only make her mind crave more sleep.

The assassin studies the young teen and expects her to question him about the café. Instead, such questioning never comes. 47 watches as Victoria runs her thin fingers through her slightly tangled hair. Victoria groans at herself for falling asleep on the living room floor. Regardless, her emerald gems finally meet the piercing blue eyes of 47, and then, her gaze shifts from the assassin's face to the white towel.

Victoria tries her very best not to grin over excessively. A knot in her throat prevents her from swallowing an excess of saliva.

Finally, she clears her throat and asks, "What happened to your arm?"

"A cut …" 47 frowns.

"How did you get a cut?"

"It was a careless accident."

"Are you _sure_ it was an accident?" Victoria tilts her head. She knew the truth of the matter was far from being a mistake, but the assassin never discussed his assignments with her.

47 simply clears his throat.

"Is it deep?" Victoria asks, slightly twitching at the sight of it.

"No …" 47 sighs and lifts himself from the uncomfortable recliner. He walks slowly towards the eager teenager and sits down next to her on the dusty, wooden floor.

"But you're bleeding quite a bit, right? That's why you have that towel?"

The assassin does not respond. Instead, Victoria reaches for the towel and slightly lifts it from 47's arm. She peaks at the wound.

"My God!" she gasps. "That's—that's _a lot_ of blood for a 'small' cut!"

47 did not appreciate the teenager's sarcastic tone. He simply shrugs in response to Victoria's shock. She is asking too many questions about events he would prefer not to relive. The assignment is complete. All four targets are dead, and that is the end of it.

"P—put pressure!" she croaks, firmly pushing the towel back into the assassin's arm without remorse. 47 cringes slightly in response.

Victoria adamantly continues to push the white towel into the assassin's wound, and eventually, his blood completely soaks the cloth. 47's warm blood seeps completely through the towel, slightly staining the tips of Victoria's pale, smooth fingers.

"Ouch …" Victoria whispers, shivering at her caretaker's wound. "I'm just glad you're …"

47 frowns. He did not wish to speak of the matter any longer than necessary.

"I'm just glad you're alive …" she smiles.

"Thank you ..." the assassin whispers, his eyes focusing on the newly-blood-stained towel.

Victoria smiles hopefully. She whispers, "You know, I went to a nice little coffee shop today ..."

The assassin's eyes do not linger to the beautiful face of the teenager next to him. He did not feel it appropriate to discuss his contracts with an innocent girl.

"And my friend was supposed to buy me a present," she continues to smile widely, "... but he was unable to. So, it looks like I get no gifts at all today!"

Regardless of 47's injury, Victoria begins to bait her caretaker. She knows the assassin is the last person on the planet to forget something as important as her birthday. No longer able to act as if he does not care, 47 sighs, feeling uneasy of what he is about to do. With his free, uninjured arm, the assassin reaches into his suit's inner pocket. The tips of his fingers meet a rigid thorn. Regardless of a slight prickle, 47's hand wraps around the long, thorny stem.

"Here …" 47 whispers, removing the blooming rose from his suit's inner pocket. Victoria's vivid green eyes contrast with the crimson red of the thick-stemmed, blooming rose.

"It's all I have …" he looks away awkwardly from her emerald eyes. He has never been good at expressing emotions. Even more so, he had no idea what a young teenage girl like Victoria would expect for a gift. "Sorry—happy birthday …"

"I knew you remembered!" She smiles as her eyes instantly glimmer with happiness.

Secretly, the assassin wishes she would simply accept the gift and stop the emotions. Victoria gently wraps her fingers around the thorny stem of the gorgeous rose. She lifts its soft, fuzzy petals to her nose and inhales deeply. The teenager sprawls happily across the wooden floor again, feeling rather accomplished for receiving at least one birthday gift. And while the gift may not be extravagant, Victoria's heart flutters happily at the mere thought that 47 actually cared enough to give her anything.

"Thank you ..." Victoria whispers, still deeply sniffing the rose and staring at the cracked ceiling.

The young teenager's imagination blossoms once more. Her thoughts linger to Diana's library—the star covered ceiling in all its glory. Those white and yellow specks of brilliance against a black and blue ceiling.

Diana's library.

_Diana_.

"Hey, 47 ..." Victoria whispers as she still sniffs the rose.

"Yes?" the assassin sits completely still as he stares vacantly before him.

"I miss her ..."

"Who?"

"Diana ..."

"Hmm," the assassin hums in response. He had not much time to think of his dead friend. Regardless, 47 finally caves into his weakness. He gently lays down next to Victoria on the dusty, wooden floor. The assassin continues to firmly hold the blood-soaked towel to his wound.

"Victoria ..." 47's watery, blue eyes finally linger to the beauty lying beside him. The young teen's emerald eyes meet the frosty blue of his.

"Yeah?" she solemnly asks, feeling a rising sense of bitterness within her chest. The assassin's lack of sympathy certainly did not comfort the depressed teenager.

"I su—" the assassin pauses, feeling unsure of what comforting words he could possibly give to Victoria. "I suppose Diana is happy …"

"Happy? Where?" Victoria's glittering eyes wander back to the cracked, damp ceiling. "In Heaven among the stars and with angels?"

"I don't know …" 47 whispers. "I don't know."

The edges of Victoria's lips curve slightly upwards. The assassin may not have impressive comforting skills, but Victoria's smile widens at his simple words.

"Do you think she's looking down on us?"

47 slightly licks his dry lips, feeling uncomfortable with the whole conversation. He instantly regrets trying to comfort the birthday girl.

"Maybe ..." he clears his throat. "Who knows?"

"Well, _I_ think she is," Victoria giggles softly. "You know what's silly? She always told me stories about you ..."

"What kind of stories?" the assassin continues to stare at the teenager next to him, now completely intrigued by her words.

"Stories of you and her and your missions together ..."

47 cringes slightly due to his arm. He continues to apply pressure to the wound with the towel as he now stares at the ceiling and flickering light bulb. The silence between the assassin and Victoria lasts for a few minutes before he can make sense of the teen's confession. Stories. Stories of _him_. How many stories did Diana tell Victoria? Why? When? The assassin mentally cringes in frustration.

Why would Diana ever think that 47's dark past would make good bed-time stories?

"And what—what do you think of these stories?"

"I think you're a really nice person ..." Victoria mutters, finally turning her back to him. She now rests on the left side of her body. "I like you."

Victoria curls up into a ball as she shuts her eyes. Her aching legs still burn with frustration. The teenager's back cracks with her sudden shifting of position on the wooden floor. Victoria begins to mentally scold herself again. Her bedroom is not too far away, and yet, her body does not want to move anymore. Giving into temptation, Victoria shuts off her overactive imagination and immediately slips into a deep sleep.

Next to the sleeping beauty, the assassin still stares blankly at the ceiling and at the painfully flickering light bulb. His thoughts linger on his conversation with Victoria—on Diana and her stories. Most importantly, Victoria's sentiments completely befuddles the assassin. 47 applies more pressure to his wound as his working mind begins to drift to more important matters: Victoria's safety.

The assassin realizes a plethora of new issues which arose regarding the girl he tries so hard to protect. Her safety is everything, and such safety comes at a price. 47's eyes linger around the rundown apartment—around his version of hell.

Paris. Paris is a far cry from the life Victoria used to live with Diana back in the United States. The city itself proves to be more of a hassle than 47 previously expected.

The assassin finally loosens his grip on the towel, causing it to slither down his arm and onto the wooden floor. 47 is far too tired to reason with himself and his demons anymore. Perhaps by tomorrow or the day after, the assassin would try to solve his latest problem regarding Victoria. But as of right now—8:30 p.m. on a Wednesday night—all 47 can do is massage his wound. He listens diligently to the peaceful breathing of the beautiful teenager next to him, and eventually, her paced inhales and exhales lull him into a deep sleep.

Victoria is safe. For now, at least.

And as the flickering light bulb above them finally fizzles out, both 47 and Victoria sleep dreamlessly. What good is it to dream of wonderful things when life proves to be far more difficult than enjoyable?

* * *

**Author**: Hello everyone! I just want to thank you all for reading and showing support for this story. It's been a while since my last update so I hope you really enjoyed this semi-lengthy chapter in response. Also, I hope you guys are prepared for some mystery and more fragmented storytelling coming up in the next chapters. I plan to reveal some stuff later on, though. So please, do continue reading and supporting. Thanks!


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